


Tempest

by laireshi



Category: Iron Man (Comic), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst, Civil War II, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 08:11:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7566727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laireshi/pseuds/laireshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I love you. Not because it’s easy. It can’t be easy with Tony Stark. But it’s worth it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempest

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for beta to [Comicsohwhyohwhy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/comicsohwhyohwhy)!
> 
> This is set during and after the third issue of Civil War II.
> 
> A fill for an image prompt on my stevetony bingo card, the AA screenshot with Steve and Tony after a shower (notice that the fic is 616).

Rhodey is dead—and now Bruce, too.

Tony can barely process it. He only came here to help Bruce. He even let Steve take his armour, all so Carol would let him come; he thought if he was here . . . He should’ve fought harder against anyone coming at all. He should’ve fought them all and he should’ve warned Bruce; something, anything—

He looks at Bruce’s body again, red blood spilling around him, the arrow still buried deep into Bruce’s chest, and Tony just collapses to his knees. He can’t stop the tears coming, the despair rising up in him. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

Carol’s behind him, unapologetic as always. Tony _hates_ fighting his friends—but if this is what is happening, if all of Carol’s decisions lead to death and she can’t see it, he damn well will go to war with her.

He promised Bruce everything would be fine. And it would’ve been, if the assembled heroes hadn’t come there, if Clint hadn’t gone _insane_ with a bow Tony made for him, no less. Tony feels like he can’t breathe, his whole body shaking with each sob. Then Steve touches him, gently, as if he’s afraid Tony would shatter if touched—or that he would push Steve away. But Tony doesn’t have strength in him to react in any way, and lets Steve kneel behind him and stroke his back slowly. It’s comfort that Tony doesn’t deserve.

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispers.

When did Steve even get to Tony’s lab, earlier? He wasn’t in the team that Carol had assembled to confront Tony . . . Tony was mostly grateful Steve had arrived at all, when his presence made it possible for Tony to come to Bruce’s aid—except Tony was no help at all. He failed and saw another friend die. 

“We were supposed to defend,” Tony whispers, feeling numb. 

“Yes,” Steve says. “We were. Tony—”

Carol’s voice seems very loud all of a sudden. “Medusa, let’s, for now, get Ulysses out of here.”

 _No_. Tony pushes Steve away and jumps to his feet. “No!” he says, and then Steve’s behind him again, holding him back with a strong grip on his shoulders. Tony doesn’t even have time to feel betrayed by it. “That—this— _none of this is your call_!” he yells, but it’s all for nothing.

He can just look on as Medusa takes Ulysses away.

Tony yells at Carol, and she yells right back, and then Steve is between them again.

“You both need to cool off a bit,” he says, and doesn’t wait for anyone’s answer. He leads Tony away with a warm, but heavy hand at his back. “Let’s go home.”

“ _Home_?” Tony asks, and he wants to laugh. “So it’s not a cell awaiting me?”

Steve sighs. “Carol asked Medusa to let the Avengers . . . handle you.” He winces as he says the words.

“She should handle herself first,” Tony snaps. “Before everyone ends up dead.”

Steve moves his hand to Tony’s elbow, just a point of connection, but doesn’t say anything.

“How do you know that anyway?” Tony asks. “You didn’t come with her.”

“I didn’t, no,” Steve agrees. “But taking so many heroes without anyone noticing is difficult, and I connected the dots. I’m glad I followed them to you, Tony.” Steve hesitates. “I talked to Carol on the way here, though. _Apparently_ she didn’t want to make me choose.”

“And you’re—” Tony stops himself mid-sentence. Of course Steve is _not_ okay with that, but he won’t say that—because Tony knows intimately how it feels to want to spare Steve the hard choices, and knows that Steve hasn’t forgiven him for that, not really.

“I love you,” Steve says, as if he’s reading Tony’s mind. He knows him too well. “Tony. Really. Let’s go home. We can talk there.”

“What is there to talk about?” Tony asks, dead tired. “Rhodey’s dead. Bruce’s dead, and I only came here to help him. It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy at best, even if Ulysses doesn’t have any reality-manipulation powers to back his visions up, and—” Tony bits on his lip. He has Ulysses’ brain patterns. He should be able to find the answer he needs. The question is, before or after someone else dies?

God, why couldn’t it have been Tony today.

“You need to rest, Tony,” Steve says. “Come with me. Please. I care about you, and you need to take a step back now.”

“I need to work on it,” Tony mutters.

“You’re out of it,” Steve says, and it’s so blunt Tony stares at him. “I know exactly what you’re capable of doing when you feel it’s necessary. From personal experience, as it were. I also know you wouldn’t have come after Ulysses like that if you were in your right mind. If you go on as you’re now . . .” Steve trails off.

It’s not as if Tony doesn’t know that. But every minute not spent on analysing Ulysses now feels wasted. (He has to work, so he doesn’t have a chance to think.)

“How long has it been since you last slept?” Steve asks.

Steve knows exactly how long, considering they’re sharing a bed. He has a point, though. Tony’s running on sheer adrenaline. When exhaustion hits him, he’ll start making more mistakes. And . . . It’s a close feeling to being drunk.

Tony lets his head hang low. “I don’t think I can sleep, Steve,” he admits very, very quietly. 

Rhodey and Bruce, gone, and Tony’s going to have to fight with Carol, and he’s not sure he’s getting his armour back, and and and, _he can’t_.

“It’s okay,” Steve tells him, steps closer to kiss him on the cheek, lightly. “Come on.”

Steve steers him towards one of the quinjets. Ah. The one with Tony’s armour still hidden inside, at least, small mercies. “Normally I’d take your Avenger babies home, but I think Sam will take care of them.”

“He’s great.” Tony almost smiles, buckles in and lets Steve start the jet. Tony’s a better pilot, especially since he designed this quinjet, but for the moment, he really doesn’t want more responsibility. It feels like he fucked up everything that mattered lately.

“So, you still won’t pick a side?” Tony asks once they’re in the sky, the coordinates set for Avengers Tower.

Steve sighs. “You and Carol both know that I’m not going to pick a side,” he says. “Still: you think I agree with her, because I refused to say I agree with you. She thinks I’m on your side, both because I refused to agree with her and because we’re fucking. Her words, not mine. No, Tony, _I’m still not picking a side._ ”

“It’s not _me_ or _her_ ,” Tony mutters, but doesn’t argue; the thought has occurred to him before, that Steve just wants to spare his feelings by not saying outright _oh and by the way, Carol’s right about Ulysses_. 

“When I arrived to your lab, everything was a mess,” Steve continued. “I managed to talk both of you down. You weren’t happy without the armour, she wasn’t happy with you there, but compromises were made.”

“I was there, Steve, I know.”

“How do you think it would’ve gone without me? Or if I had picked any side?” Steve’s staring straight at Tony now.

They’re both thinking the same thing: everyone might’ve started throwing punches right there, still in the haze after experiencing Ulysses’ vision.

“So just trust me that I want the best for _you_ —for every superhero, Tony,” Steve says. “And if sometimes we disagree, it doesn’t matter. I love you. Not because it’s easy. It can’t be easy with Tony Stark. But it’s worth it.”

Tony loved Steve with all his heart when he told Stephen to wipe Steve’s mind.

But Steve isn’t Tony. And Tony trusts him. 

“I love you too,” Tony says, because it seems important to _say_ it now, and he wonders if it’s really possible for Steve to stay neutral in a conflict like this one.

Because it’s not war yet, but it _will_ be.

Tony doesn’t have Ulysses’ powers—but he’s not called _a futurist_ for nothing.

He doesn’t say anything else until they land on the landing deck of the Tower. He watches Steve power the quinjet down, follows him out. He tries not to focus on the grief, because he knows that if he does that, he’ll just shatter, he’ll end up drinking instead of picking himself up to continue fighting. It’s pretty clear in his mind. 

Soon Steve will see just how fucked up Tony is, and leave him.

Tony trips, suddenly, and Steve catches him by his arm, stabilises him. They look at each other for a few long second, and Tony feels shaky. Then Steve nods, as if to himself, and picks Tony up.

Tony wants to protest, but he has just tripped over smooth floor, and it’s nice, being in Steve’s arms like that; it might be one of the last times.

Tony lets his head lean against Steve’s chest. “I can’t—”

“You _need_ to sleep, Tony,” Steve says. “And—I know it won’t fix anything, but you’ll be better equipped to deal with it.”

“I made Clint’s bow,” Tony whispers. “I make all of your weapons.”

“You create them to protect us,” Steve says. “And if someone decides to uses them against someone innocent . . . Look, Tony, it wasn’t your hand on the bowstring. You were possibly the only person there who _really_ believed in Bruce. But that is not your fault. It’s ours. Mine. Carol’s.”

He’s right, and he isn’t, and Tony’s really fucking exhausted, but sleep comes with nightmares, and even now if he closes his eyes he sees the arrow piercing Bruce’s chest, he sees Rhodey on the cold slab.

Steve sets Tony down in the bathroom, carefully, and Tony leans on the sink. He glances at his reflection and immediately looks away before he breaks the damn mirror. 

“Close your eyes,” Steve says, and Tony obeys without a word. Steve presses a cold damp towel against Tony’s tear-stricken face, then gently wipes under Tony’s eyes and away.

Tony tries to open the undersuit—much as he just wants to fall down and never stand again, there’s dust and mud on it and he thinks there might be Bruce’s blood and _oh god no—_ his fingers fumble.

Steve immediately moves behind Tony and finds the hidden zipper, opens it. Tony gratefully steps out of the suit and all but falls under a shower. He needs to wash the previous days off, at least physically, so he just lets the hot water run over him for what feels like hours. Then Steve closes the tap, pulls Tony out of the shower and into a fluffy towel, dries him off.

Tony can’t be bothered with finding pyjamas, so he crawls into their bed still naked and curls in on himself.

He should be working. This feels like such a waste. But he can’t find energy to get up again, even as he feels wide awake.

_Who else is going to die?_

Steve sits next to him. “It’s not a war yet, Tony,” he says. “And I believe it won’t be. Because I believe you can solve it. You’re always good at what you consider impossible.” There’s a small smile on his lips. He kisses Tony briefly. It’s not heated, just a gesture of comfort, and Tony craves more. Steve seems to understand, as he wraps himself around Tony, keeping him safe and warm.

“All I can see when I close my eyes,” Tony lets out, “are their faces.”

Steve’s silent for a while, and then he starts singing; an old English lullaby. His Brooklyn accent is more pronounced now, but Tony recognizes the melody at least. Jarvis used it sometimes, when Tony was a baby.

Eventually, Tony feels his eyes closing, and he falls asleep, safe.


End file.
